


in hall of kings

by spectreshepard



Series: our fated share [2]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Dreams, Established Relationship, F/M, Flashbacks, M/M, Mentions of deaths and potential endings, Sigurd is just the worst big brother, Spoilers, Vili is a sentimental bastard, classic drunk conversations, with a side of emotional depth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-15 07:49:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29930241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spectreshepard/pseuds/spectreshepard
Summary: With the work of pacifying England seemingly over for now, Eivor and Vili must adjust to their new life together in Ravensthorpe. After years of wondering and waiting, it's a slow process of relearning each other - both the things they remember, and the things that they don't - as they follow their fated thread which they know now is bound, and it promises to take them through highs and lows of a life that once only existed in dreams.A collection of standalone one-shots exploring Eivor and Vili's relationship and the questions that still lie between them.
Relationships: Eivor/Vili Hemmingson, Randvi/Ubba Ragnarsson
Series: our fated share [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2199177
Comments: 4
Kudos: 35





	in hall of kings

**Author's Note:**

> someone's gonna tell me i write too much about 9th century viking boyfriends one day but it hasn't happened yet, so here i am
> 
> these little snippets all take place after the established canon divergence of 'for we who fall' so if you're brand new here, do be sure to check that out before you venture into what may be some surprising character appearances otherwise WHOOPS
> 
> as mentioned, these are all standalone one-shots! i have another work in progress for the series which will be a smaller, possibly three-chapter work detailing a Real Fun Event in the game ;D so be on the lookout for that too. anyway, without further ado, please take more vili/eivor rambling from yours truly, all because i saw one (1) quote from Vikings and i disintegrated

It is a quiet night in Ravensthorpe, the kind that follows after a bright and colourful day filled with song and sorrow in equal measure. Today, they’d honoured Hunwald’s passing as a member of the Raven Clan, digging out a grave that would hold no body to build a mound that they could at least look upon and remember. Hunwald’s ashes would forever linger on the hills of Hamtunscire, but this memory of him they could at least bring home - for his friends and for Swanburrow too, left alone in her grief.

It is that loneliness that Eivor cannot shake, even now in the dying hours of the night. He sits comfortably in a cozy corner of the longhouse, still bright with roaring hearth and chatter between those who yet remain. Vili sits with him, or on him, rather - his head rests back on Eivor’s chest as he sits sprawled out between Eivor’s legs. He’s clearly enjoyed the mead tonight, even though he claims it doesn’t best his personal stores that he had in Hemthorpe. Eivor just smiles and pats Vili’s chest in acknowledgement of his latest complaint that Tekla should invest in stag horns rubbed with mushrooms, which she should then use to stir the brew. It almost makes sense, but Eivor isn’t going to concede the point.

Eivor watches a muted cheer go through the hall as Ubba falls victim to Gunnar’s contest of strength in yet another arm-wrestle on a table that has seen a battering already tonight. An absent smile dawns on Eivor’s face when he thinks of how ordinary it seems now that Ubba is simply a part of this clan, a constant companion at Randvi’s side, and an invaluable source of advice and guidance when Eivor needs the edge of experience to temper his decisions. He is still a mighty son of Ragnar, nobody has lost sight of that - instead, it seems he has simply revealed a side that was previously hidden. One that Ivarr knew, but few others. Eivor is only glad that Ubba got his chance to discover it. 

“You think I could beat Gunnar?” Vili murmurs, interrupting Eivor’s thoughts, and Eivor feels the rumble of his words through his chest. He chuckles, lifting his half-empty mug to his lips to stave off the immediate answer that Vili wouldn’t appreciate. Nobody’s managed to unseat Gunnar from his reign as Ravensthorpe’s strongarm, and it certainly won’t be Vili who does it. He doesn’t need to know that, though. 

“Mhm.” Eivor swallows down his mead, setting his mug aside. 

“That is not an answer, Eivor.” Vili points out, and he’d sound insulted if he didn’t look up at Eivor with a wicked grin. 

Eivor just shrugs, patting the side of Vili’s face and scratching his beard lightly while he’s gazing up at him. “It has been almost seven winters and nobody has managed.”

“You don’t think I could?” Vili lifts his brow, head now resting awkwardly in the crook of Eivor’s arm as he slides ungracefully off his chest. 

“Like this? Not a chance.” Eivor snorts, “Either sit up or lie on the floor, Vili, I am not cradling you like a dog.” 

Vili laughs, the sound blurring into his words. “This is quite comfortable, raven-brains--”

He’s cut off abruptly as his body meets the soft furs beneath them where they sit. Vili looks momentarily shocked before his laughter continues, louder. Eivor doesn’t hide his grin, but he quietly laments the fact he’d likely be carrying Vili to bed tonight. And he’d be clinging onto him come morning like a newborn kitten, completely helpless. 

Eivor pokes Vili once he stops laughing, fearing for a moment he’s passed out completely, but he grunts in response, eyes closed, lips smacking as he settles comfortably amongst the furs with his hands resting across his stomach. Satisfied that he isn’t on the verge of choking on his own spit, Eivor leaves Vili to it, and returns to his careful watch on his hall, and his earlier thoughts.

Despite the warmth he feels here surrounded by those he loves, that loneliness clings to him in the form of a question he doesn’t want to answer. What happens when they are gone? What happens when it is his turn to stand at a burial mound and weep words of passing, wishing that he was with them still? And as much as Eivor tries to keep that thought nondescript, he cannot help but see glimpses of Vili in them. He wonders what he might say. He wonders what he might do. He finds that he can’t quite fathom it - he sees only a murky glimpse of shadowed figures before his heart clenches painfully, his chest grows tight with a coldness that even fire can’t touch, and he is forced to discard the idea before it embeds itself as a shard of ice into his chest. 

In truth, this is a thought that’s plagued him ever since leaving the mess of Cippenhamm, almost an entire year ago. Swanburrow’s grief had sunk so deep that only now did she find the courage to bring the idea to Eivor, to give Hunwald a place of rest. Would he do the same? Grief is a strange thing; one might taste it as a cup of sweet wine, another might taste it as a poison. His thoughts swim, his stomach twists in knots, and his mouth runs dry - Eivor tries to shake the feeling off, but he has given it too much attention, and now it has sunk its claws into his skin. 

Face turned to stone, Eivor settles his gaze back on Vili. And like always, the sight of him calms his thoughts and warms his blood. He wonders then if Vili has thought the same things and kept the answers to himself - Eivor doubts it, he doesn’t dive as deeply into these hidden depths as Eivor does, but perhaps today had brought some questions to mind, just as it has for Eivor. Eivor runs a finger along the sharp line of Vili’s nose, stone-face cracking ever so slightly as Vili murmurs something, brow creasing when he tries to bat Eivor’s hand away.

“You are still with me, then.” Eivor chuckles quietly, though he knows the sound is hollow. Vili notices too, eyes fluttering open to regard Eivor - still full of mead-shine, but sharper and focused now as they land on him. He doesn’t say anything, but Eivor knows he is waiting to hear Eivor’s thoughts spoken aloud. 

“Do you ever wonder…” Eivor begins, but his gaze drops as the ice cold shard threatens to pierce his chest once again, and he trails off. Vili lifts his arm, first to rest on Eivor’s knee, and then he brings his hand to turn Eivor’s face back to him, his knuckles brushing Eivor’s jaw. 

“Wonder what?” Vili asks, words still mead-heavy and clumsy, but sincere. 

“...what you would do if I wasn’t here?” Eivor asks. The words are forced out, and Eivor wishes his mug wasn’t empty - something sweet might make them spill easier. Vili lets out a slow exhale, and his fingers come to grip Eivor’s chin. He looks at him intently, ocean-deep eyes hiding surprising depths that Eivor has come to relearn as of late, but his expression remains strangely content. There is no sign of the haunting chill that Eivor feels, no twisting grimace on his lips, no tension drawing his gaze tight. Eivor wonders if he’s even heard him, but the slightly too-tight grip on his jaw tells him that Vili has been paying attention. 

“In my dreams, we are always together.” Vili says quietly, eyes almost drifting closed. Eivor swallows around the sudden knot in his throat, made up of all the questions he wants to ask but they have tangled themselves up into incoherence, and he is left silent in Vili’s wake. Vili’s face is lit by a sleepy smile, eyes crinkling as a faint laugh spills out and his hand drifts from Eivor’s jaw down to his chest where Eivor feels his heart is beating loudly its stubborn song, and Vili knows how to listen now. And he has listened well enough to understand that Eivor’s complex questions all too easily and all too often shatter around the stalwart nature of a simple answer.

Just like this one.

Eivor blinks, feeling that ice cold shard simply shatter into pieces, melting away under Vili’s touch. 

Was it really that simple? Eivor can’t help but think about all the missing spaces and the words that would go unanswered without Vili there. How would a dream even begin to replace that? He had been offered dreams by Odin and he had turned them away, finding them empty. 

_ ‘Do dreams not inspire? Do dreams not make us fearful? Do they not push men to their greatest glories?’ _

Eivor remembers the conversation with a puzzling clarity, the words sounding in his mind as though Odin himself stood beside him. He feels as though he should look, but he keeps his eyes trained on Vili and pushes Odin’s voice out of his mind. He had scorned dreams back then, but he had been struggling to see a reason why dreams should matter. Glory had led him into hostile waters and, for a time, cost him his brother. He’d found little inspiration in anything. He saw only lines upon a map that he needed to break, he understood only the blade of his axe, and he acknowledged only the bitter decrees of men too hungry for power to see the death that rode to greet them on blackened wing.

Only now that he’s sat high on valour’s steed, clad in the iron armour of his allies and wielding the sharp blade of the Raven Clan’s notoriety, does Eivor understand how low he’d sunk.

And funnily enough, it is the man lying half-asleep and warmed by mead and wandering hands that pulled him from the fog and refused to let go until Eivor saw a reason to stumble on again. So Eivor smiles, a little confused, a little sad, but mostly certain that he’d made the right decision to be selfish for once by bringing Vili back to him. Perhaps it does make sense. If he could love half as fiercely in dreams as he does in life, Eivor thinks that would keep the worst of the chill at bay. 

“You are drunk.” Eivor points out after his prolonged silence, prompted to speak when Vili starts poking his chest sloppily, finger missing almost every time. Vili lets out another breathy laugh, nodding. 

“But that makes me an honest man.”

“Nothing could make you an honest man, Vili. The things you’ve done--” Eivor’s smile widens as he waggles his eyebrows, though his expression shifts with a laugh that cuts his own words off, almost snorting when he sees the slight flush on Vili’s cheeks. 

“And the places we managed to do them in,” Vili points out, “Were mostly your ideas.”

“Oh, gods, I’m not sure I want to hear this.” Randvi’s voice interrupts, and Eivor looks up sharply, feeling his ears burning now too. He shoots Randvi a weary, almost sheepish smile, and does his best not to even look at Ubba standing next to her. Vili seems to have no such qualms, though, and he props himself up on his elbow to look at the both of them, shit-eating grin in place.

“Randvi, my friend, did you know that Eivor--” he begins, but Eivor just shoves him back into the furs where he lands with a muffled grunt.

“Please, ignore him,” Eivor pats Vili’s chest, casually resting his hand there to make sure Vili doesn’t get up to join the conversation again, “Have you enjoyed the night?” 

Ubba pulls up a bench with his foot, gruffly ordering some poor soul to find another seat in the process. Randvi squeezes his arm in thanks, taking a seat with a quiet sigh of relief as she cradles her growing belly, and Eivor is reminded that despite their challenges, there is new life to look forward to soon. It is a hopeful thought, and one that brings a tired smile to his face as he looks between her and Ubba.

“It has been… a learning experience, Eivor, truly,” Randvi sweeps a stray strand of hair from her face, “But welcome. Swanburrow is one of our own, and it was a sweet way to say farewell, however delayed.”

“These Saxons view death so strangely,” Ubba says as he sits beside Randvi, hands clasped around a drinking horn and Eivor can hear the liquid sloshing - nearly full, “It’s such a quiet little thing. They are at peace when they die, and they leave their earthly goods behind. Hah. I’ll raise a horn to them, but their dying affairs are not for me.” 

“Gods, more talk of death…” Vili mumbles. Eivor shoots him a glance. 

“Is the mead to your taste yet, Vili? I heard Tekla brought a new brew to the hall tonight.” Randvi asks, and Eivor can hear the grin in her words. He groans internally as he feels Vili tense beneath him with the effort of sitting up, he pulls Eivor’s hand off his chest and holds it in his lap as he looks at Randvi.

“None of you would last a  _ day  _ with my mead.” Vili declares, and Eivor’s inclined to agree. For all his talk of that mead, Eivor’s helped himself to a horn or two before, and it has never gone well. Perhaps he’s simply reluctant to bring it here to Ravensthorpe because it would undoubtedly end with him making a fool of himself in front of his people while Vili acts as the damage control, which, historically, has gone about as well as putting out a fire with a flaming stick.

“Halfdan mentioned something about one of Hemming’s great feasts,” Ubba scratches at his bearded chin, brow furrowed as he recalls the memory, “The mead was particularly good. He prefers his wine, but…”

“Not that day, my friend.” Vili beams, and Eivor isn’t sure if Ubba’s laughing at his words or the fact he’s half leaning into Eivor, completely unable to sit upright. Probably the latter. 

“And what have you been dripping into his ear, Eivor, that he tires so quickly of our talk of death?” Randvi wonders absently, laughing quietly at the sight of the two of them. Or perhaps she simply enjoys their company. Eivor hopes it is a little of both, and it gladdens his heart to see her smile so easily. But the question remains, and just as Eivor opens his mouth, Vili helpfully takes over.

“He asked what I would do if he was gone.” 

It is a blunt statement. Laughter dies in the quiet that follows, and Eivor clears his throat, fingers tangled utterly with Vili’s own, and he can’t seem to pull himself free. Vili squeezes gently when he feels Eivor’s fingers wriggling, and the gesture eases some of Eivor’s sudden restlessness. 

“I thought of Swanburrow. Her grief.” Eivor explains, rubbing at his neck with his free hand before resting his arm on his head as he leans it against the wall, still regarding Ubba and Randvi. “It made me wonder what he or I might do.” 

Randvi’s gaze softens. It isn’t pity that lingers there, but a kind of understanding. She looks at Vili then. “What was your answer?”

“He knows. That is for him to tell.” Vili murmurs in a rare moment of modesty, and Eivor glances at him, brow furrowed. He finds Vili looking back at him with a knowing smile. Eivor would call it a challenge, but there is nothing to fight here - it is a truth that Vili has spoken, and it is a truth Eivor understands. 

“Eivor won’t say a word, Vili, you know that.” Randvi accuses, but when Eivor turns back to her he finds her smiling again. Eivor shrugs, knowing his ears must be bright red now, and he let out a breathless laugh. 

“It was a good answer.” Eivor offers, glancing between Randvi and Ubba, who drains his horn almost in one go. 

“And here I thought my robin was tired and wanted to return to her nest…” Ubba says then, sighing as he nudges Randvi’s knee. Randvi just pats his thigh, “Ubba, when you’ve known Eivor as long as I have, you take any opportunity that presents itself to turn him the colour of beet.” 

Eivor scowls. Perhaps a little childishly. He comes far too close to sticking his tongue out at her, but he fears Ubba would lose all sight of Eivor’s jarldom if he did. And unfortunately for his silent argument, he feels a blush spreading across his cheeks - and he can’t blame it on the mead, because his tankard is sitting empty at his side. Ubba’s laugh is a deep rumble, not unlike Vili’s own that joins his a moment later, followed by Vili’s strong arms wrapping around Eivor’s middle. After that, he finds it hard to maintain the guise of a disgruntled jarl as a smile cracks his gloomy expression once again. 

“Randvi…” Ubba grins, even though his tone is a quiet nudge for Randvi to stop pestering them, “Let’s leave them to each other. I think you have got what you came for.” 

Randvi nods, still smiling. “Enjoy the night. I… do not think I will be seeing either of you in the morning.” She lifts a brow at Vili. Eivor sighs, nodding a quiet confirmation to her assumption as Vili rests his head on Eivor’s shoulder, mumbling something about mornings being a menace to society. 

“Rest well, my friends.” Eivor says to the both of them quietly, trying to ignore Ubba’s wink as he nods at Vili very pointedly before Randvi hauls him away. He watches their retreating forms slip out of the longhouse doors, the dark of outside swallowing their silhouettes away from the smoke and light of the hall. He feels Vili pressing a kiss to his neck, drawing a quiet hum of contentment from Eivor.

But a question lingers on his mind.

“Do you really dream of me, Vili?” 

Vili stops, lifting his head to look at Eivor. His expression is unreadable, for once, and that startles Eivor. He doesn’t know where to look. 

“Constantly. Even now.” Vili answers, and Eivor feels yet another tether hook behind his breastbone, joining the slew of others that Vili has already placed there. It’s as though his ribcage is adorned with fated threads that run between him and Vili, they are intrinsically bound, and to be torn apart would be a pain like no other. Eivor understands that intimately, and it is not something he will ever be ready for. 

But this one is a shared bond, and not one that begins from one and ends at the other - Vili dreams of Eivor, just as Eivor has dreamed of him. 

His dreams started not long after Vili had left Norway. It was as if his absence had carved a need so deep into the fabric of Eivor’s existence that his subconscious had no choice but to place Vili there, to stop Eivor from unravelling completely. He saw him in those dreams, and he spoke to him, and he walked with him through places beyond imagination and now far beyond recall. Once his anger and his grief subsided, Vili appeared less often, but… he was never far. And it was strange, and at times, completely unbearable -- to have Vili so close in his mind, and wake up to the reality that he was across the North Sea and far away, likely never to return, it was a gut-wrenching drop that Eivor suffered too often. 

So to hear that Vili had walked with him in dreams too, that somehow, despite their distance, they were never far from the other… it is deeply comforting to know. 

Eivor smiles, almost in disbelief. Vili seems to see right through him, even in his mead-haze, and he grins. It’s almost smug.

“And you dream of me, Wolf-Kissed.” Vili almost purrs, the sound shooting right through Eivor with a delightful warmth. He feels Vili lift an arm, his hand drifting to curl around the back of Eivor’s neck, fingers tangling briefly in his hair before they brush the raised edge of the fated marks left on his skin. Eivor’s breath stutters, and he instinctively glances around the hall to see who’s close by. There are few left drowning their sorrows, a couple of unfortunate souls lie passed out on benches and tables, and it is only Sigurd and Gunnar talking by the hearth.

“I do. Without boundary.” Eivor murmurs then, satisfied with their privacy for the moment. Vili’s eyes brighten, a chuckle sounding deep in his chest as he leans in to kiss Eivor, landing somewhere by the corner of his mouth. Eivor can’t help his laugh, just getting a taste of mead from Vili’s lips as he mumbles, “You missed.”

“Ugh, let me try again--” Vili kisses him again, this time landing just above Eivor’s mouth, and Eivor’s laughing fully now as he brings a hand to grip Vili’s jaw, directing him to the right place. His kiss is sweet, both in taste and intention, and Eivor finds himself craving more of it as Vili pulls away gently. Eivor’s gaze drifts from Vili’s eyes to his lips and back, thumb running the line of Vili’s scruffy jaw. He loves the way Vili watches him like this, gaze deep and dark, mouth slightly open and curved with a crooked smile. 

“Hm. I think we should get you to a bed.” Eivor tells him, and Vili nods in his grip.

“And you can show me how some of your dreams went.” Vili suggests, but Eivor just snorts.

“Let’s see if you can stand, first.” Eivor suggests, letting go of Vili to get to his feet. Vili slumps dangerously when Eivor leaves him sitting there, and Eivor has to hide his laughter as he reaches to pull Vili up. It is an ungraceful affair - Vili’s height and bulk do nothing to help Eivor steer him and they end up stumbling backwards, right into the bench that Ubba had pulled up, which sends them quickly back to the ground. Eivor hits the ground hard, and it’s Vili who gets the softer landing with Eivor beneath him. They lie there in tangled limbs, completely disoriented and slipping in and out of laughter in between insults and accusations of foul play.

Once Eivor’s head stops swimming and Vili stops trying to untangle himself unsuccessfully, Eivor hears footsteps approaching, blurred by his own dulled senses and the fact Vili is mumbling right into his ear. Eivor manages to glance up, and two familiar faces are staring back down at him.

“Shall I fetch you a blanket, brother?” Sigurd asks, and Eivor can see he is trying hard not to laugh. Gunnar has no such reservations, and his amusement spills out in a booming chuckle. Vili is almost dead to the world, having made himself more than comfortable on Eivor’s chest, his legs sprawled half over the bench they’ve tripped over, one arm resting on the floor and curled around Eivor’s head, the other tucked up to his own chest like a baby. Eivor can do nothing but stare silently at the two men, hoping his nonanswer would tell them everything they need to know. 

“Or perhaps we should fetch Holger to immortalize this.” Sigurd suggests, tilting his head as if to try and visualize the mess from another angle. 

Gunnar shakes his head. “Come now, Sigurd, let us not stand in the way of love’s tender desires.” 

“Ugh, Gunnar--” Eivor’s argument is strained and muffled by Vili’s weight, but Gunnar just shushes him with a gleeful grin.

“No, no, Gunnar is right,” Sigurd joins in with his own shit-eating grin a moment later, “We will leave you to it. Enjoy your restful night. I will see you bright and early in the morning.” 

“Sigurd…” Eivor wheezes in protest as Gunnar and Sigurd both disappear from sight, and Eivor can feel their footsteps retreating.

“Goodnight!” Sigurd calls, and then Eivor hears nothing else except Vili’s quiet breaths. Sighing, Eivor decides he may as well make peace with his fate if he wants to get a lick of sleep tonight.

And it isn’t the worst place to be - it’s in a warm hall, and not a muddy, shit-filled pigsty like in Stavanger. It’s an improvement on the usual places Vili ends up dragging him to after his mead-soaked adventures. Eivor chuckles tiredly, and wraps his arms around Vili, squeezing him gently as he presses a kiss to the top of his head. They would feel this tomorrow, but at least it would be a short walk to Eivor’s bed where they could seek refuge from everything and everyone come morning. 

For tonight, Eivor contents himself with the thought that he would find Vili at his side, no matter what. 

Even in his dreams. 


End file.
